Samantha Harvey very nearly gave up on her novel Orbital, which last night won this year’s Booker prize. Set on the International Space Station (ISS) 250 miles from Earth, Orbital follows the day-to-day lives of four astronauts and two cosmonauts as they hurtle through the universe at 17,500mph. She was a few thousand words in and suddenly lost her nerve. She felt she was trespassing in space. “I am so spectacularly not an astronaut,” she laughs, when we meet for coffee the morning after the Booker ceremony. “I’m so unadventurous, so unaudacious, so impractical, cowardly, anxious. I would be terrible.”
After a few months of dabbling with other ideas, she opened the abandoned word document on her computer by mistake. When she read it she found it had an integrity and pulse that drew her more than any of the other projects she was working on. “I thought, ‘I shouldn’t be afraid of this. If I can do it in a way that’s different to the way astronauts write about their time in space, then maybe there’s something here.” So she climbed back in and achieved lift-off.
But the halcyon days of youth linger in the mind the way the briny taste of an oyster lingers on the palate. My friend Julia writes in the group chat one day, nostalgic, saying that she had just assumed life would always be like that—and then it wasn’t. “I’ve never again had an oyster I didn’t pay absurd amounts of money for,” she says. “I’ve never again eaten oysters until my belly was full.”
Julia now lives in London, England, but I’ve returned to the coastal Pacific Northwest after decades inland. So what’s my excuse? Why haven’t I harvested shellfish for more than 25 years? I call up Camille Speck, the Puget Sound intertidal bivalve manager at the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, to see if collecting and eating bivalves is still a thing. Her answer surprises me, given that my youthful experiences of eating wild shellfish feel like semimythical memories from a bygone golden age.
Rupert Everett prefaces his suite of short stories with an account of the showbiz ruse that provides the title, a grim little routine whereby American film producers intoxicate a would-be screenwriter into feeling that a deal has been done, only to then forget them entirely. Will Everett’s readers offer up the English equivalent, murmuring “Darling, you were marvellous” before moving swiftly on? Well, the collection certainly delivers what Everett’s fans will be hoping for: quality time in his inimitable company. But it also delivers much more. Sometimes, it is simply the energy and poise of the prose that arrest one’s attention; often, it is Everett’s combination of studied carnality with an outlandish gift for invention. This is a storyteller unafraid to spike his black comedy with sudden and strongly brewed emotion – and vice versa.
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way” is the famous opening line from Leo Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina. In her compassionate, engaging, readable debut novel The Truth About my Daughter, author and GP Jo Skinner reveals the actions, outcomes, betrayals and secrets of the memorably dysfunctional Steinbauer family through the weary yet discerning eyes of Fin (Josefine), the eldest daughter.